


We Do Not Kneel

by PoorWendy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 18:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11903889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoorWendy/pseuds/PoorWendy
Summary: Tormund's never really had to respect anyone's authority.Leave it to Jon Snow to help him realize just how much he loves kneeling.





	We Do Not Kneel

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @oceaxe for being the beta I can trust, and the cheerreader I can't get enough of.

He didn’t quite believe it at first. Didn’t understand it.

They’d gotten spectacularly drunk the night that Jon unchained Tormund. In fact, Jon was surprised Tormund could even _get_ that drunk. Some of the brothers of the Watch laughed at them. More sneered at the wildling and the Lord Commander laughing together in their cups. Then Tormund rose feebly, fell flat on his ass, laughed some more on the dirty floor. Jon laughed with him, at him, and finally offered a hand to help him up.

Jon was hardly in a position to be helping anyone anywhere, but all the same, he let Tormund slump against him, and led him waywardly to his quarters.

Jon let Tormund fall clumsily onto his bed, then asked him, “Do you need anything?”

Tormund laughed low. “A good fucking,” he mumbled, Jon swore. Or maybe he was just drunk. “I think you,” he began, yawning against his pillow, “could give me a proper fucking, Snow.”

“What?” Jon barked, laughing, surprised.

Tormund nodded. Yawned again. “Always thought…” he sighed, and fell asleep.

His snoring filled the room, and Jon’s smile melted away as he tried to make sense of what he just heard. And then Jon went back to his own quarters trying to make sense of it. And then Jon spent the days until they left for Hardhome trying to make sense of it.

Was Tormund playing with him? Teasing him? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d made jokes of that nature, although they’d never been so unassuming, so free of challenge.

He tried to ignore the way it made everything seem so much more significant—every glance, every touch, every followed order.

He told himself all the reasons it wasn’t true, over and over again. Until he couldn’t anymore.

It was in Hardhome.

Gods, Jon still can’t stand to think about it.

But before all that, before the dead came stalking through the snow and slaughtered the free folk in scores, before all that, Lord o’ Bones had pressed Tormund too hard, had called him a traitor, and was right in the middle of asking him if he sucked Jon’s cock when Tormund split him across the skull with his own staff.

And it was in that most appropriate of moments and settings that Jon realized what it was he _really_ wanted—what he suddenly realized Tormund wanted as well.

Getting him alone, that’s the easy part. Jon works late, far too late, in his quarters. He’s summoned Tormund at all hours for input on strategy. Tonight, Jon’s mind is consumed with a much different kind of strategy.

When Tormund arrives, Jon lets him in, a stern look on his face, one that belies his nervousness.

Tormund saunters through the door in the big, burlish way he saunters everywhere. He’s covered head-to-toe in furs, and Jon finds himself wondering absently when when he last got a good look at Tormund in anything else.

The candles in the room are burning low, but the fire is bright. The flames make Tormund look wild, almost _beastly_ in the dark.

“Need something from me, Snow?” Tormund asks, smiling. He’s always smiling. Jon likes to see him smile, but right now he wants to see much, much more out of him.

“I do,” Jon says, offering a smile back, nearly having to force it, because he doesn’t feel much like smiling. He’s filled with want, and it’s tough to hold back. But Jon wants to see just how well he can take Tormund by surprise.

“Well,” Tormund says, happily slumping himself into Jon’s desk chair. It’s a habit of his. “What can I do for you?”

At this, Jon smiles, and there’s nothing forced about it. It’s an appropriate question, and one that seems to reveal a glimmer of Tormund’s eagerness to please Jon. And Jon _is_ pleased. “I wanted to speak with you,” he begins, then adds gently, “about Hardhome.”

Tormund shudders. Jon can hardly believe his eyes, but he does. “Fuck, Snow,” he answers. “Don’t need to be thinking on that at this time of night…”

Jon closes his eyes. Tormund isn’t wrong. “No, not that. What I meant to speak to you about was your… _conversation_ with the Lord o’ Bones.”

Tormund spits on the rushes beside Jon’s chair. “He had it coming. He had it coming to him long, long before that.”

“It bothered you. What he said about you and me,” Jon points out, voice calm, level.

Tormund shrugs and smiles. “You’re a pretty lad, Jon Snow. They’ll always say things like that about you.”

Jon nods. He considers the point. “Well,” Jon says, and Tormund turns to face him more fully. Jon is still standing, and it has him truly enjoying the opportunity to look down on Tormund, a chance he rarely gets. “That’s the thing,” he says finally, taking a step closer to Tormund, who seems to notice that something is different tonight. “It wasn’t much about me being pretty, was it?” Tormund only looks back. “He didn’t ask if I sucked _your_ cock… He asked if you sucked mine.”

Something in Tormund’s expression changes upon hearing that. Tormund has shared all manner of filthy thoughts and stories and ideas with Jon, but Jon has never said anything like this back to him. Not once.

“You know it wasn’t about that,” Tormund says, though he speaks more softly this time. “He just wanted to make me out as weak. The traitor. The Crow’s little pet.”

“The Crow’s whore,” Jon offers quietly, with a smile.

It’s a friendly smile, or at least that’s the way Tormund seems to take it, because he laughs, and he nods, and he says, “Aye, Snow. The Crow’s whore,” and helps himself to a swig of ale from the horn hanging off the corner of Jon’s desk. Something else Tormund’s taken to doing without asking.

Throwing himself into Jon’s chair. Helping himself to Jon’s ale. Begging to be reproved.

The thought excites Jon nearly too much, and he has to make an effort to keep his breath steady, his face relaxed. “I guess I ought not have been surprised, really,” Jon says, “that you did what you did to him.” Tormund nods. “I can imagine he caught you off guard.”

Tormund opens his mouth to speak, but seems to change his mind, and instead closes his mouth again, and raises an eyebrow.

“Well,” Jon clarifies, “you’d expect it the other way around, wouldn’t you? I mean look at you,” Jon says, gesturing toward Tormund as he takes another step toward him, “and look at me,” he gestures to himself. “You’d expect them to say you wanted to fuck the pretty little Crow, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose—”

“Oh,” Jon cuts him off, “it makes more sense, doesn’t it? Filling his pretty little mouth with your great, wild cock? That’s what you’d have them think.”

Tormund just breathes for a moment. Then he says, “Snow—”

“Because who would ever think that you would want it otherwise?” Jon asks. “Who would ever suggest that you, bane of _giants_ , would want to be the one sucking my cock? The one being fucked?” Jon asks, taking another step toward Tormund.

“’The fuck are you asking me, Snow?” Tormund asks, and he’s trying so hard to be angry.

Jon tilts his head, stares at Tormund. “You know exactly what I’m asking you,” he says, and he steps closer still, and reaches down, and takes Tormund’s jaw in his hand, and Tormund tries very hard not to react. “Do you want to be the Crow’s whore?”

At this, Tormund closes his eyes, like he’s translating the words Jon spoke. “Boy,” he tries to argue, tries to be as large and fierce as he is.

Jon tightens his grip on Tormund’s face. “Lord Commander,” Jon corrects.  He nearly doesn’t say it, because Tormund has never taken such a title seriously, but all the same, Jon thinks what Tormund wants right now is a firm hand, and Jon holds the very position to play the part. He’s seen the way Tormund looks up when Jon’s addressed by the men of the watch. He’s seen the way Tormund sometimes stares with as much admiration as the rest of the free folk when Jon speaks to the lot of them at large.

And then, the way Tormund opens his eyes, and stares up into Jon’s face, Jon knows: Tormund has lost whatever little fight he was trying to fight against himself. Tormund groans, low, barely audible, and inclines his chin toward Jon’s hand, though Jon gives him little room to do so. Then he asks, sounding almost unlike himself, “What would you have of me?”

It’s a simple question, but they’re some of the loveliest words Jon’s ever heard. “All of you, Giantsbane. But first,” he pauses, letting his eyes go softer, letting himself sound sweeter, if not still completely in control, “why don’t you do what you’ve been longing to do, and get your mouth around my cock?”

Tormund closes his eyes again momentarily, relishing. “As you _command_ ,” he answers, a little of his usual cockiness back in his voice, and Jon lets go of his face.

It’s at this point that Jon realizes his leverage is going to slip; Jon’s hard as ice inside his breeches, but so warm right now that steam would be rising from his body were he out on the Wall, away from the warmth of his quarters, and there will be no hiding his eagerness, his _need_ , from Tormund. Jon wonders whether Tormund will let him keep the upper hand when he realizes how badly Jon’s aching for him. He certainly hopes so. He’s been relying on the very notion that Tormund wants him this way. In charge. In command.

Tormund leans forward a bit in his chair, but keeps his head up, gazing at Jon. There’s adoration in that gaze, but there’s something else as well. Something newer, something Jon hasn’t often seen on Tormund. It’s a lot like determination, not completely unlike an expression Tormund might have worn in the silence before a raid. He reaches out and puts a hand to the inside of Jon’s right knee. It’s enough to make Jon lose balance in its own right, and then Tormund’s pushing up the inside of Jon’s thigh, slowly, until he comes to rest at the crease of his groin. He rubs his thumb against a patch of skin that’s exquisitely close to Jon’s cock, which is harder now, and pressing desperately against his breeches.

“Who’d have thought…” Tormund mutters, “mouth as pretty as yours, talking like that.”

Jon runs a hand through Tormund’s hair. Tormund leans in and rubs his cheek gratefully against Jon’s cock, so hard already that it begins to leak at the sudden contact, even through his clothes. “Pleasantly surprised are you?” Jon asks. Tormund only nods as he goes to work at Jon’s laces, getting his breeches undone quickly in spite of uncharacteristically fumbling fingers. Jon hums approvingly at the sight of him. “Who knew you were such a greedy thing.”

Tormund stares up at him through hooded eyes, and yanks down Jon’s breeches and smallclothes with one fierce pull. “You’ve no idea, Snow,” he says, holding Jon’s eye all the time, even as he begins to reach out, finally about to put a hand on him.

It’s all painfully arousing, and Jon’s aching to feel Tormund’s fingers as they draw closer, but he also wants to stay in control, wants to see Tormund’s eyes keep flitting closed in rapture, to feel Tormund rub and purr against his lap as if he’s _starved_ for it. Jon finds the strength to swat Tormund’s hand away.

“Why don’t we see,” Jon begins, leaning down, bringing their faces close enough together that he can feel Tormund’s breath, “how you manage without your hands, for now?”

The question gets Jon just what he was hoping for. Tormund bites hard on his own bottom lip, arches his back, groans low in his throat. He might even lean toward Jon, might even be hoping to kiss him. Not yet, Jon decides right away. He’ll have to earn that.

“And why don’t we get you out of some of these furs,” Jon adds, noting how damp Tormund’s forehead is already, “before you become the first man to sweat to death at Castle Black.”

Tormund goes to reach for the fastenings to his coat but pauses, looking up at Jon, and Jon realizes he’s waiting for instructions on whether or not to use his hands. Jon’s cock bobs at the very idea. Tormund notices. He pretends not to.

“Very good,” Jon manages. He lowers himself to one knee (but not before taking another half step toward Tormund to be sure could feel the warmth of Jon’s cock against his face) and unbelts Tormund’s coat, going to work at its fastenings tirelessly until it gives way enough that Jon can stand, and pull it off, and toss it aside, followed by the scrappy collection of smallclothes beneath. Tormund sits now, barechested, hands tucked dutifully behind his back, staring helplessly at Jon’s cock. Jon tries to commit the sight to memory for a moment, then reaches down to take hold of Tormund’s chin again, gentler this time. He tilts Tormund’s face up, and Tormund gazes at him longingly. Jon rubs a thumb across Tormund’s lower lip.

Still holding Tormund’s chin, Jon uses his free hand to stroke himself a few times, partially to get Tormund even more worked up. Partially just because he can’t help himself. Tormund licks his lip, his tongue sweeping over the pad of Jon’s thumb where it still rests. Jon pulls Tormund closer, then guides his cock into his mouth.

Tormund’s eyes roll back and he groans around Jon’s shaft as his lips close around it, and Jon can hardly stand from the sensation. “That’s right,” Jon mutters, half-present. “That’s good.”

The praise only proves to make Tormund hungrier, so Jon supplies it without question. Tormund pulls off of Jon’s cock to take a breath, and lick around the head for a moment before swallowing him to the hilt. “Gods, you’re good. I knew you’d been thinking about this,” Jon says, watching his cock disappearing into to Tormund’s mouth again and again. He lets go of Tormund’s chin and runs that hand instead through his thick, red hair. “You’re a sight, you know.” And he is. Though Jon thinks he might be rather comfortable in that chair. “I think I’d like you on your knees, Tormund.”

Tormund shivers and lets his mouth fall off of Jon’s cock. Jon’s resentful of its absence already. The air in the room, warm as it feels against the rest of him, seems to blow past his wet prick, cool and relentless. Tormund falls forward out of the chair and onto his knees and grabs hold of Jon’s thigh to steady himself. Once he’s steady, he remembers himself, and lets go of Jon, and tucks both hands behind his back again. Jon would swear that “Snow” is on the tip of his tongue, but Tormund catches himself, cutting himself short, drawing it out into a long, desperate _hiss_. He stares at Jon’s cock, eyes pained, mouth open. He wants so badly to please Jon, to follow his orders. The very idea has Jon light-headed, completely overcome with lust. It’s taking everything he has not to give in, not to let on how weak he feels himself, how, in the right light, _he’s_ the one who feels the needy whore.

“Go ahead,” he finally utters, willing his voice to stay strong, commanding. “Suck.”

Tormund sighs and dives back toward Jon, brushing his beard along the length of Jon’s cock before swallowing him down again completely, once, twice, three times, before pulling back a bit. Jon is so overcome by the forceful pattern that he winds up thrusting involuntarily into the back of Tormund’s throat at the fourth beat. Tormund makes a truly obscene sound, somewhere between gagging and choking and grovelling. Jon’s worried he might have hurt him until Tormund’s hands rush up to grip Jon’s ass, and _gods_ , is it possible he’s trying to pull Jon even _farther_ into his throat?

Finally, Jon utters a moan of surprise, and Tormund’s got his fingernails digging into Jon’s flesh. This is a crossroads: Jon could give in, go at him hungrily, give himself away; or, Jon could stay the course. Jon takes a breath and pulls Tormund’s hands away, holding them roughly by the wrists. Tormund fights him a bit, grapples against Jon’s grip, trying to grab hold of him again. Finally, Jon pulls his hips back until Tormund’s mouth is empty and wet, lips mouthing beautifully at the air between them.

“Am I going to have to bind your hands?” Jon asks, squatting down a bit to stare into Tormund’s eyes, and watches Tormund bite his lip at the question. Tormund shakes his head and quickly pulls his hands from Jon’s and puts them behind his back again.

“No,” Tormund says, panting. His mouth seems to keep moving against his own volition. “I’ll do better. I’ll be good.”

Jon runs his fingers through Tormund’s hair. “You will,” he says, voice stern, at odds with the gentle way he’s petting Tormund’s head. “Or we’ll keep stopping.”

Tormund squints his eyes shut at that. He leans forward again, remembers himself, leans back. He looks up at Jon, eyes open again, and asks, “May I?”

 _Fuck_. Jon nods.

Tormund leans in, slower this time, having regained some sort of calm. He puts his nose to the soft, dark curls at the base of Jon’s cock. He inhales, gently, gratefully. Then, he’s dragging his lips up Jon’s shaft, stopping finally to swirl his tongue around the tip before taking Jon down completely again.

Jon lets his eyes close, turns his face upward, savors the feeling. The very _thought_. Wildling. Warrior. Giantsbane. Magnificent and hulking and terrifying, and worshipping here at Jon’s feet. Jon rubs circles into Tormund’s scalp with his fingers, and Tormund hums appreciatively. Jon places his free hand on the desk to steady himself.

He looks back down, admiring Tormund’s head as it bobs against him. He rakes his fingers through Tormund’s hair, over his ear, letting his hand come to rest there, letting the movements of Tormund’s head pull it back and forth.He rubs his thumb against Tormund’s temple, and Tormund looks up, stares into Jon’s eyes. It’s one of the filthiest, and oddly one of the most beautiful, things Jon’s ever seen. Tormund’s jaw pried open. His mouth wet, and red, and stretched around Jon’s cock. His eyes full of want, of _need_ , and leaking at the corners. Jon wipes at one of those corners with his thumb. Tormund whimpers and slows his pace, panting through his nose, bathing Jon’s shaft in warm breath, and Jon’s not sure how much more of it he can take.

Jon is conflicted—he wants everything—wants to spill down Tormund’s throat, wants to rip the rest of his clothes off, wants to see Tormund’s huge cock hard and eager for him, wants to make Tormund shudder by wrapping his fingers around it, his mouth.

But more than anything, Jon wants to work Tormund open with his fingers before he fucks him into his Lord Commander’s desk. And if Jon lets Tormund keep swallowing him down—lets Tormund keep humming blissfully on his cock, lets him keep whining and worshiping—Jon will come long before he gets to do any of that.

“Enough,” Jon demands suddenly, grabbing a fistful of thick, red hair at the back of Tormund’s head and wrenching him off his cock as Tormund hisses ruefully.

But he obeys, and gods, Jon can still see in his eyes how desperate he is to obey. “Your clothes,” Jon chokes out. “Take them off.” Tormund’s hands fly to his breeches, but Jon stills them. “No, no. Stand up,” he says, pulling him up to his feet. “Over by the fire.”

Tormund walks dutifully away toward the fire, and Jon takes a seat in his desk chair. He wants to sit eagerly at the edge of his seat, but he makes himself lean back lazily, resting his hands behind his head. “Slowly, Giantsbane,” he warns, and Tormund nods. “Like a proper whore,” Jon breathes, low and rough, and Tormund’s back arches, and then his hips thrust forward involuntarily.

He does what he can to keep steady, to undress slowly. Still, it feels like only moments later that Tormund stands stark naked on the rug before Jon’s hearth, trying to cover his massive cock with his hands, his enormous frame shivering, eyes locked on Jon’s, large and soft.

“Look at you,” Jon sighs. “You love this, don’t you? Standing on display for me.”

Tormund groans. “Aye, my lord,” and goes from covering his cock to palming it—just _barely_ , like he’s hoping he can do it with some amount of subtlety.

Jon shakes his finger. “Hands behind your back,” he orders. Tormund moans and complies. Jon does his best not to come undone at the sight of him, suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to know whether Tormund could fit all of himself into Jon. But that’s for another night. Tonight, Jon holds all the cards. And that’s exactly how he wants it.

“Come over here,” Jon tells Tormund, and Tormund walks over slowly, taking time in each step, far too composed for Jon’s liking. Jon gets a surge of possessiveness, a _need_ to keep his advantage. “Stop there,” Jon says when Tormund’s an arm’s length away. Tormund stops. “Turn around. Let me see you.”

Tormund blushes—it’s the first time Jon’s sure of it. All the same, he turns obediently on the spot. Once Tormund’s facing away from him, Jon reaches out and drags a finger up the back of his thigh. “Perfect,” Jon breathes. “You’re perfect, you know.” Tormund sways a bit where he stands, tenses gratefully, and Jon rewards his good behavior by grabbing a handful of his ass. “Bend over my desk for me.”

Tormund does so eagerly, and once he’s settled, Jon finally stands again. He walks around the desk in a large circle, taking it all in, and every time their eyes meet, Tormund writhes and keens and Jon’s going to fucking lose it soon if he doesn’t get his hands on that big, freckled body. Finally, Jon settles behind him, reaches out, slides his hand down Tormund’s spine from the back of his neck to the cleft of his ass. Tormund’s back arches again as he braces himself—arms fully extended—on Jon’s desk. Jon slides his hand back up and rests it between Tormund’s shoulder blades, pressing down, guiding him until his chest meets the surface of Jon’s desk.

“There you are,” Jon says approvingly. “Right where I want you. Right where you want to be.” Tormund nods against the desk. “Waiting for me so nicely.” Tormund closes his eyes, growls. His ass sways side to side almost undetectably, but Jon notices. Of course Jon notices. “You been thinking about me, Tormund?” he asks, rubbing the inside of Tormund’s thigh with one hand, resting the other on Tormund’s hip. Tormund whimpers, leans into the touch gently. “Tell me,” Jon says. “Tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

Tormund doesn’t answer at first, just keeps huffing out these mewling little breaths that are positively _killing_ Jon, but Jon stays strong, the way Tormund wants him. Finally, Tormund says, nearly whispers, “Aye, I think about you. Think about you too much.” Jon feels the words, and the voice they’re spoken in, sink into his skin, send shivers down his spine. “Think about your lordly cock,” Tormund goes on, a little louder. Not loud, but louder. “Think about choking on you like I just did,” he says.

Jon runs his hand higher up Tormund’s thigh, massaging his skin, _just_ brushing his knuckles against his balls. “Was it like you imagined?” he asks, pinching at the meat of Tormund’s thigh a little.

“Better,” Tormund answers. “A lot fucking better.” Jon angles his head far to the left to get a look at Tormund’s cock, and finds that it’s leaking on parchment on Jon’s desk. Something from a raven earlier, he can’t remember from whom. He doesn’t fucking care. He’s so pleased with what he sees that grabs hold of the inside of Tormund’s thigh with his whole hand. Tormund, glad for it, talks on. “Like the way you taste. The way you move.”

“Lovely,” Jon says, and Tormund edges his hips backward. Jon allows it and bends over Tormund’s back, letting his lips rest dangerously against Tormund’s skin. “You called me a pretty lad,” he says.

Tormund nods, tries to press against Jon a bit. “Such a pretty lad. A pretty face, and pretty hair, and such a pretty cock.”

“Do you know what I think?” Jon asks, raking his teeth against Tormund’s shoulder blade. “I think you make a pretty sight as well.” Tormund stretches beneath Jon as Jon runs his fingers up and over Tormund’s ass, sliding close by his hole, but not touching it. Not yet. “You looked very pretty on your knees, sucking my cock,” Jon tells him, and Tormund’s been behaving so sweetly that Jon places a small kiss to his back. Tormund inhales sharply, a much different-sounding reaction than Jon’s been getting out of him tonight so far. “You looked pretty trying to hide yourself over by the fire,” Jon says, and kisses him again, on his spine this time. “And you look very, _very_ pretty now, with your arse up, so eager for me.” Jon swallows. He’s never spoken like this, to anyone. But Tormund loves it. He can’t keep still. So Jon presses on. “ _Blushing_ at the way I’m talking to you. Still hungry for my cock while yours is leaking all over my desk.”

“Couldn’t help it,” Tormund pants. “Can’t help it.”

“Oh,” Jon purrs, “it’s alright.” He kisses lower on Tormund’s spine. “It’s alright,” he whispers and kisses lower still, just above his ass. “I know you didn’t mean to,” he says soothingly against the small of his back. “But,” Jon says, before standing again, “you did make quite a mess.”

At once, Jon winds up a bit and backhands Tormund across the ass. Tormund calls out in surprise, presses his chest down harder against the desk. Jon knows—somewhere in his mind, distantly—that they should probably be making some effort to be quiet. But there’s no way Jon’s going to hush Tormund right now, no way Jon can even consider trying to quell any sound that might come out of him.

“Fuck,” Tormund grunts, and Jon’s heart nearly breaks at the sound, and he rushes down to sink his teeth into the reddened flesh, not so hard at all, but enough that Tormund’s backing his ass up against Jon’s face wantonly.

Jon pulls back enough to say, “Easy, Tormund. Easy. You’re being so good, stay good for me.” Tormund stills his hips and Jon can’t deny him much longer. He sticks his thumb in his mouth and wets it with spit, then lowers it to drag it down the length of Tormund’s crack, until it’s grazing the wild, red curls around his balls.

“Fuck,” Tormund swears again. “Fuck, I can’t be good forever. Please, Sn—” Jon spanks him again. “ _Fuck_. Lord Commander, _please_.”

Jon rubs a hand over his ass consolingly. “Oh, that’s good, Giantsbane. Beg me. Tell me how badly you want it."

“More than I can say,” Tormund begins, as Jon goes about opening a desk drawer quietly as he can to retrieve the bottle of oil he’s been using so often by himself lately, daydreaming (sometimes well into the night) about something very much like this. “Want to feel you hard inside me, Want you to fuck me, and fill me up. I want you to _ruin me_.”

“ _Gods_ ,” Jon chokes out. “Say it again.”

“Fucking _ruin me_ , Lord Commander,” Tormund pleads, voice low and throaty and obscene. “Open me up, and then fuck me with your pretty cock. _Please.”_

Jon coats his fingers with oil and pushes one in, slowly but steadily, unable to wait another moment to give Tormund exactly what he’s asking for. Fuck, he’d give him anything, anything at all tonight.

Tormund groans at the pressure, but pushes back to sink lower on Jon’s finger all the same. Jon can’t move for a moment. He just watches Tormund writhing, and stares, mesmerized, at Tormund’s hole where it’s swallowing Jon’s finger. “So warm,” Jon whispers.

“More,” Tormund whines. “Please.” He begs so sweetly. Jon’s aching to stick his cock in him already.

Jon uses his free hand to rub along Tormund’s spine before as he fits another finger inside him. Tormunds’ hips buck at Jon’s touch.

“Oh,” Tormund calls. _“Yes_ ,” he says, lower, trying to quiet himself. “It’s good,” he mutters against the desk.

“That’s good,” Jon observes, and it’s nearly impossible to keep his voice steady now, to stay dominant, because _fuck_ , to feel Tormund from the inside… Hot, and slick, and _tight_ , and squeezing desperately around Jon’s fingers. “It should be so good for you,” he says, and lowers his face to press another kiss to Tormund’s back. “You’ve been so good for me tonight.”

“Want to be,” Tormund grunts. “ _Need_ to be.”

“I know,” Jon says, reaching up with his free hand to pet the hair at the back of his head. “I know you do.” He pushes farther into Tormund, his bottom knuckles stretching him wider. “That’s why you’re getting just what you wanted, aren’t you?” Tormund nods frantically, tries to look back at Jon, but keeps losing the drive and letting his head fall back to the desk, eyes drooping closed again. Jon wants more than just a nod, so he twists his fingers harshly inside Tormund, who hollers and arches his back. “Tell me,” Jon commands, and twists them again, and Tormund _shakes_ beneath him. “Tell me it’s what you want.”

Still, it takes a moment for Tormund to do anything but nod again. Then, he chokes out, “It is. It is. I want it, gods, I need it. Need you. Think about you always, need you to fuck me open, make me yours. Need you. Want you.” It’s all in one shaky, devastating breath, and Jon’s so pleased he adds presses in a third, slick finger and picks up a brutal rhythm inside Tormund. Tormund seems unable to stop himself as he keeps chanting, _“Want you, need you, need you, need you, want you, want you,”_ to the new beat of Jon’s hand, and Jon’s knees go slightly weak over it.

“Fuck, Giantsbane,” Jon mutters, and Tormund tenses again beneath him, probably at hearing the word come crashing through his lips so violently. “You feel even better than you look,” he goes on, pawing at Tormund’s insides with his fingers, “and, _gods_ , you look perfect. Look how wide you’re spread for me,” Jon notes, running his free hand along the inside of Tormund’s right thigh, then his left. “Your fucking legs… Your arse…”

Tormund groans and it nearly sounds like he’s crying. “Fuck,” he manages, pushing back now, fucking himself against Jon’s fingers with reckless abandon, and Jon wants to reprimand him for losing control, but it’s the most arousing thing he’s ever fucking seen, ever felt, and Tormund deserves it, to chase after whatever he needs.

“Gods, you’re desperate for it, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Tormund confirms, not stilling his hips, and he looks back at Jon, his face flushed and covered with sweat, peeking back over the expanse of shoulders and back and ass to where Jon’s fingers are still disappearing inside him. “I am,” he chokes.

“I bet I could make you spill just like this, your cock bouncing around, my fingers stuffed up your arse,” Jon mutters.

 _“Oh,”_ Tormund moans. “Aye, you could. I think you could.”

“But should I?”

Tormund squeezes his eyes shut tight. “No, _gods_ , please, no.”

Jon leans over again, three fingers deep in Tormund’s ass, his other hand running up Tormund’s back, and Jon rests his lips against Tormund’s spine again as he speaks. “Why, Tormund? Why not?” he asks, pushing farther in still.

“You know why,” Tormund manages, and it sounds like he could be almost laughing as he says it. The sound makes Jon smile against Tormund’s back.

“Of course I know,” Jon says, still smiling, his teeth touching Tormund’s skin. “Tell me anyway. Say it.”

Tormund is getting so wild that he’s growing bolder, misbehaving. “Because I want your perfect, pretty cock in me,” he growls, “want to feel your hot seed filling me up while I spill mine. Want your lordly hips to crash against mine.”

Jon’s been strong all night, but at this, _he’s_ the one who calls out. Tormund notices and grins. Jon grasps at the last semblance of self-control and authority he’s got left.

He pulls his fingers free from Tormund’s clenching grasp, and brings his hand down across Tormund’s ass, the other side now, so that Tormund will remember Jon tomorrow when he has to sit down. _“Fuck!”_ Tormund howls. “Fuck, please, please,” he begs, needy, no sign of the smirk left on his face.

“Get up,” Jon orders, and Tormund raises himself frantically to standing, still facing away from Jon. Jon steps up behind him and wraps an arm around him, spreads his hand over Tormund’s chest, brushes it up and pinches one of his nipples. Tormund writhes in his arms, and then Jon slides his hand down Tormund’s chest, his ribs, his stomach, until his fingers tangle in the curls above Tormund’s cock. Then, he stills his hand. Tormund wails.

“Lie down for me?” It comes out like that, a question, against Jon’s will. He’s slipping, quickly feeling the more desperate of the two of them, and the feeling of Tormund against him is breaking down all the strength he has. But he tries, _gods_ , he tries. For Tormund.

Tormund nods and turns slowly in Jon’s embrace until he’s facing him, pressed against him. He starts to move back, to lower himself onto the desk, but then his eyes lock on Jon’s doublet. He reaches for it, but puts his hands at his sides again (no easy task, with Jon’s arms still wrapped around him). “Would you take them off?” Tormund asks, looking down at Jon with too-soft eyes. “Your clothes?”

Jon smiles, feeling a surge of pride—and a twitch of his cock—at Tormund’s desire to see him. He nods. “Of course,” he says, and stands up straighter, practically on his toes, to try and speak into Tormund’s ear. If Tormund dips lower to make it easier for Jon, neither of them mention it. “Anything, Giantsbane.” Tormund leans back and stares at Jon, eyes round and helpless. _“Everything,”_ he adds, breathy, low, desperate, indulging.

Jon is sure he does not look at all strong and commanding as he frantically rids himself of his doublet, his smallclothes, his breeches, but nevertheless, once he’s done, Tormund is staring in adoration. Again Jon feels a swell of pride, can’t help flexing his muscles, putting the body he’s earned from such tireless work and training on display. Tormund sighs, eyeing Jon from head to toe and back again. “Lie down, Tormund,” Jon says, gently. He has to, the way Tormund is looking at him so worshipfully.

Tormund obeys, easing back on the desk, then lying down slowly, never taking his eyes off of Jon for a moment. Even once he finally lets his head fall back, he keeps nodding upward, darting his eyes up at Jon just to get another look. Jon fetches more oil and starts slicking his cock up. The feeling is _excruciating_ it’s so good, and Jon has to keep himself under firm control not to tug himself to completion right there.

But of course, he can’t. He could never. Not with Tormund looking the way he does, hungry and wanting and _waiting for him_. “Are you ready for me?” Jon asks, his belly aching with want, hot and hollow.

“Yes,” Tormund spits out at once. “Please,” he adds, a little gentler, but no less desperate.

Jon steps forward, closing the gap between them, looking down at his freckled body, tense and waiting. Jon settles, standing with his hips between Tormund’s legs.

“Ask me again,” Jon tells him, grabbing him behind the knee and pushing his leg up so that his thigh is pressed against his chest. Tormund’s head rolls back again and he groans, runs his hands over himself greedily.

Tormund bites down on his bottom lip, and Jon presses the tip of his cock against Tormund’s hole, and Tormund _whines_. “Please,” he grits out, teeth clenched, sounding like he can’t bear to wait another moment. “Just fuck me.”

Jon feels like weeping—certainly, parts of him already are—but he has to stay strong for Tormund, give him just what he wants. So Jon pushes, slowly, like there’s no urgency, like his heart isn’t pounding against his ribs, like he isn’t at all concerned about spilling well before he gets the chance to bury himself fully inside Tormund. No, he pushes in _slowly_ , watches himself disappear bit by bit, watches Tormund’s chest shuddering as he struggles to remember to breathe, as he opens up beautifully for Jon.

Tormund keeps lifting his head to lock eyes with Jon, or to try to get a glimpse of what’s happening between their hips. His forehead is spotted with beads of sweat, skin flushed, mouth open, seemingly unable to stop the constant groan he’s emitting as Jon sinks in deeper.

“Gods,” Jon mutters, without really meaning to, “you’re tight. So tight. So smooth.”

Tormund hisses, and Jon shuts his eyes tight—breaking his own heart because, gods, he _never_ wants to take his eyes off Tormund; he never let himself believe it could be this good—as Jon finally buries himself to the root inside.

Then, Jon has to wait a moment, and he tries very hard to pretend it’s another means of making Tormund squirm, but in truth, if Jon moves right now, he’ll be lost entirely.

Tormund is writhing and panting and stretching desperately around him. He keeps opening his mouth and then closing it, like there’s something that wants to fall out of it, something Tormund’s desperate to keep at bay.

“What is it?” Jon implores, but Tormund won’t—or can’t—answer. “Tell me,” Jon says, and pulls back, ever so slightly, before pushing back in. “Say it—” He thrusts again. “Say what you have to say.”

Tormund whines as Jon starts building a steady, leisurely pace, barely even pulling out for each thrust.

“Gods,” Tormund moans, “don’t even know—there’s too much.”

“Too much of me?” Jon asks sweetly, and pounds into Tormund once.

Tormund nods helplessly, grits his teeth. “Aye. Too much of you, and not enough.”

Jon closes his eyes in rapture, slams into Tormund again. He’s consumed. There is nothing that lies beyond this room, nothing cold and terrible outside its protective walls. His world is _heat_ , inside and outside of Tormund, and the way the hearth paints the room in licking tongues of light and shadow, Jon would swear the place itself was on fire.

“Thought you wanted me to fill you up,” Jon says, hardly thinking, mouth running off on its own. “Can’t get much more full, can you?” he asks, and pushes hard into Tormund before stilling his hips, buried deep.

Tormund blinks hard, brow knit tight. “Fuck, I can’t. Not just this,” Tormund whimpers. Then he struggles to lift his head, to meet Jon’s eyes. “You fill my fucking _head_.”

His eyes are sober in the moments he can keep them open. Then he’s letting his head fall back again, arching his back, giving in to being _filled_ , and Jon’s left with those words echoing in his mind, bouncing against the other ones that have been playing over in his head since Tormund spoke them: _“Fuck me.”_

So, Jon does. He pulls back farther and farther, and slams in harder and harder, and each thrust earns him a beautiful cry from Tormund, the sounds so very sweet that Jon redoubles his efforts.

 _“Oh,”_ Tormund shouts, and doesn’t quite stop shouting as that “oh” gives way to a litany of feral sounds, some of which closely resemble the word “fuck,” some of which resemble no civilized speech whatsoever. Some of which come dangerously close to “Snow.”

And Jon knows the rules because _he set them_ , but all the same, he’s fucking dying to hear his name tumble through Tormund’s lips.

And Tormund, as if he knows exactly what Jon’s thinking, finally breaks and lets it out.

 _“Snow,”_ he groans, low and barely contained and barely fucking human.

Something inside Jon melts and in the instant that follows he wages an entire war with himself. He feels like pulling out of Tormund may very well kill him.

But—rules are rules.

Jon pulls back, like he’s been doing on every stroke, but this time, rather than slamming back into Tormund, he pulls out entirely, abruptly. _“Fuck,”_ Tormund sobs.

“Is that what you call me?” Jon grits out, wondering somewhere in the back of his mind how he’s even still breathing, how he even exists now that he’s outside of Tormund again.

“Commander,” Tormund whines, scrambling for purchase anywhere on Jon’s body to cope with the loss. “Lord Commander, fuck, _fuck,_ put it back in.”

“That’s better,” Jon says, soft and soothing as he reaches for more oil. He wants to tell Tormund to move back, wants to climb up on the desk and keep going. But the pause is enough to let him gather a bit of composure, and he glances longingly at the bed in the corner of the room. “Get up,” he tells Tormund gently, because he can’t bear to be any crueller, seeing the look on Tormund’s face after Jon pulled out of him. Tormund stares for a moment before acting, like he can’t quite process Jon’s words. Then he huffs as he hoists himself up and stands before the desk, Jon’s papers sliding and folding beneath him as he rises. Jon’s pretty sure it’s nothing important. If it were, it probably wouldn’t matter to him right now anyhow. “Over to the bed,” Jon instructs.

Tormund sighs, stares at Jon longingly for a moment, and then turns to cross the room. He sits down on the bed, holds a hand up in Jon’s direction. Jon follows him, stands before him. Tormund lies back, keeping his thighs spread wide, and Jon forgets himself for a moment at the sight between them: Tormund’s swollen cock, so red, and leaking still; and his poor, empty hole, too loose without Jon inside.

Jon sighs, realizes he’s stroking himself generously as he coats his cock with more oil, and crawls onto the bed, kneeling before Tormund. He takes his free hand and slides it up Tormund’s belly, his chest, up to his throat, and lets it rest there as Tormund sighs and wriggles. He won’t squeeze, won’t _choke_ him, but there’s a sense of control in just letting his hand sit against Tormund’s throat, rubbing a thumb against his neck. Tormund rolls his head slowly, gratefully.

It’s hard for Jon to keep his eyes off Tormund’s cock. There’s so _much_ of it, and it’s hard for Jon to ignore the way his fingers are itching to hold it, the way his mouth is watering at the idea of wrapping his lips around it. But he’s been strong this long. Surely he can stay strong just a bit longer, fuck Tormund hard until he’s begging to come, and take hold of his cock, hard and eager, as Jon spills into him.

Jon sways on his knees as he thinks about it, and has to let go of his own cock—though it kills him to do so—to grab Tormund behind his knees, pull his hips upward. Tormund groans as Jon gives him just a moment to get comfortable before Jon slides back inside. And once Tormund’s filled with him again, he wraps his legs tight around Jon’s back, pulling him closer, and Jon finds he can’t even pull out an inch. Tormund won’t give him the leeway, and Jon’s running out of strength.

He does what he can to _push_. He might not be able to draw back but he can still try with all his might to slam into Tormund, and he does, and the more he does, the more Tormund’s legs go loose, the more room he suddenly has, and the louder Tormund gets.

And then, Jon strikes something inside Tormund, and Tormund whines, howls, and reaches up for Jon’s shoulders, and Jon simply can’t deny him.

He leans forward, bracing himself with one hand beside Tormund on the pillow, the other holding Tormund’s hip firmly as he drills into him, and Tormund digs his fingers into Jon’s back, nails cutting into his shoulder blades. Jon hisses and gives Tormund all he has, pulls back as far as he can and slams into him again and again. “Amazing,” he mutters, and lets his forehead fall to Tormund’s chest, back bent and sore, never stilling his hips for a moment.

“More,” Tormund chants softly, pleadingly. “ _More_ , more…”

“Yes,” Jon pants, “more. Everything, _everything_ …”

Tormund’s pawing at Jon now, pulling at his shoulders, his hair, his face, trying to bring him closer. Jon’s arm is trembling as he uses it to prop himself up. It feels nearly ready to give out, so Jon pulls away, unbending at the waist, kneeling straight up again and hoisting Tormund’s hips up so that Jon can pound _down_ into him, and Tormund is so grateful he forces his eyes, which had been shut tight, open, and pulls Jon close again right away, so that their faces are only a breath apart.

Jon stares, entranced, hypnotized at the expression on Tormund’s face. He’ll never forget it as long as he lives, how wanton and needy and perfect Tormund looks right now, freckled face flushed, wild hair matted to his forehead, mouth hanging open and releasing the most beautiful, appreciative sounds. And he thinks, now, Tormund’s _earned it_.

He can’t do it quickly. He wants to—at least, some truly unfettered and yielding part of him wants to. But some wiser part of him, the commander in him, maybe the Stark in him, the part of him which manages to follow orders… That part wants him to take this slowly, gently.

So he leans forward, still pumping into Tormund desperately, wildly, with nearly all his might, save for the effort he makes to keep leaning slowly, letting his lips rest lazily over Tormund’s, and whispering, “You’ve given me so much already.” Tormund sighs against Jon’s mouth, brings one strong hand up to the back of Jon’s head, gripping at his hair, but not pulling him any closer.

No. He _waits_ , his other arm clutching still at Jon’s shoulders. His eyes are open, and so are Jon’s, and Jon would have thought this would be strange, to stare right into Tormund’s eyes, to face him like this as he fucks him, but it turns out it’s the only choice. He couldn’t look away if he tried.

“So much,” Jon repeats, lips brushing Tormund’s still. “Can I take just a bit more from you?”

“Yes,” Tormund spits, quickly, too quickly. And then, “Everything,” echoing Jon’s words from before. “Everything, Sn—” Tormund stops himself and looks positively tortured at having to hold the name back. “Comm—”

Jon shakes his head, and it’s clumsy and strange with his face still resting against Tormund’s. Still, he settles against Tormund’s cheek. “No,” Jon breathes into his ear, “call me what you want to call me.” He throws himself into Tormund full-force a few times to drive the point home. “My name,” Jon says. “Say it.”

Tormund sobs as Jon buries himself inside, holds himself there, rocks their hips together, does everything he can to brush that spot inside Tormund again. And he must, the way Tormund breaks and sighs, “Snow,” against Jon’s mouth.

Jon lets his name wash over him, feels it everywhere. The one, lone syllable spreads out over his skin, burrowing into his belly. He feels it in his fucking _heart_.

There can be no more waiting. Jon moves forward, closes the gap between them, presses his mouth against Tormund’s, and once it’s there, he has no idea how he could have possibly waited so long.

Tormund whines, muffled, into Jon’s mouth, and Jon has to pull away, only long enough to say, “Again. Say it again,” as if Tormund could possibly answer when Jon latches back onto his mouth.

But Tormund, still dutiful, does as he’s told. It’s barely coherent, but sure enough, he’s moaning, _“Snow,”_ over and over again as Jon kisses him, as Jon rocks into him, grinds their hips together and struggles to find the time to breathe. _Snow._ Jon used to hate that name. Right now it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. It feels more _him_ than it ever has.

“Oh,” Jon sighs, too high, too soft and sweet, too much at Tormund’s mercy. “Y-you’re… I’m—” he stutters, heat coiling inside of him faster than he was prepared to face it. He won’t last much longer. Tormund is clutching at him, wrapped around him in every possible way that he can be—his legs, his arms, his lips, and tightest of all, his hole. “You ready?” he grunts as he works a hand between their chests, groping down Tormund’s torso until he feels his cock, bouncing firm between them.

Tormund nods violently. _“Please,”_ he begs. “I need it,” he goes on, shuddering, _“gods,_ I need to…”

Jon plants kisses to Tormund’s neck, his jaw, the space behind his ear, and for good measure, takes Tormund’s earlobe in his teeth as he starts jerking Tormund’s cock. Jon has one, only one goal remaining, and that’s to hold out just long enough to let Tormund finish, to feel Tormund’s come running and smearing between them before Jon lets himself go.

It’s more strength than Jon ever knew he had, to keep drilling into Tormund, to give him everything, _everything_ he needs. Tormund’s nodding again, and Jon’s trying desperately to get his hands everywhere at once, Tormund’s hips and his jaw and his cock and his ass and every inch of muscle on his body. “Fuck,” Jon swears, unable to stop himself. Unable to do anything besides pushing into Tormund; he barely even has to use his hand anymore, Tormund’s fucking his fist.

Tormund groans out incoherently, the sounds a guttural mess. He’s shouting as they work together, Jon fucking Tormund, and Tormund thrusting up into Jon’s grip, and there’s nothing graceful or smooth or quiet about it anymore. Jon has to sit up a bit, though he doesn’t stop his work, to get a better view of the state Tormund’s in, limbs shaking, hips bucking, teeth gritting. He’s like an animal. Wild.

 _Free_.

“Come on,” Jon tells him, leaning forward again, or maybe falling forward. “Let go,” he whispers into Tormund’s ear. “I’ve got you.”

Tormund’s hips jerk, and then he’s calling out, and then his seed is hot on Jon’s hand, smeared between their bellies, and Jon’s jaw _drops_. _He_ did all this to Tormund. _He’s_ the one Tormund wanted, Tormund _needed._ And it doesn’t take anything else to push Jon that last bit further.

He comes hard while Tormund is catching his breath, going slack, letting Jon take what he needs for himself now. Jon tries not to think about the sounds coming out of him, how he seems to have abandoned words entirely, how he’s just as wild as Tormund looked a moment ago. Tormund threads his hands into Jon’s hair, sighs gratefully as Jon fills him. Jon has to kiss him again, even as his blood cools down, his heart slows, his muscles relax. Jon still has to kiss him.

So he does.

They lie there, kissing, and otherwise just a heap of tangled, sweaty limbs. Jon wishes he would never have to pull out of Tormund, but does so all the same. Tormund lets his hips drop down again, and wraps his arms around Jon, holding him in place where he’s still lying face-down on top of him.

It’s quiet, except for their breathing, the too-sweet sound of their lips puckering and pulling at each other, the crackle of the fire, the whistle of the wind outside the walls.

Their hearts stop racing, eventually, a swift eternity later. It’s hard work for Jon to lift his head and glance up at Tormund, whose eyes are now closed, content writ across his face. “You wanted a proper fucking,” Jon whispers, and watches the corner of Tormund’s mouth quirk up. “You told me so.”

“Thought that was a dream,” Tormund yawns.

Jon can’t help yawning in return. “This feels like a dream,” he says, resting his head back to Tormund’s chest.

“Not a dream,” Tormund answers, his chest rumbling beneath Jon’s head as he speaks low. He holds Jon a bit tighter. Jon kisses the skin over Tormund’s heart. “Sweet little Crow, you are,” Tormund says, softer yet, trailing off the same way he did when Jon put him to bed, days before they left for Hardhome.

The fire is dying. A few breaths later, Jon falls asleep, for once forgetting the cold.


End file.
